


(You Stole My Heart) Like Stealing Candy from a Baby

by rsconne



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Clarke is a thief, Clexaweek, Enemies to Lovers, F/F, Fluff, Sort Of, Valentine's Day, chance encounter, meet ugly, of hearts, sappy 80s rom coms
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-25
Updated: 2018-02-25
Packaged: 2019-03-23 21:17:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,281
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13796541
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rsconne/pseuds/rsconne
Summary: Clexaweek Day 1: Meet UglyAnother shitty Valentine's Day.  Clarke and Lexa both just want to binge on chocolate and wine and nurse their broken hearts in peace.  But a chance encounter in the supermarket changes everything....





	(You Stole My Heart) Like Stealing Candy from a Baby

Clarke slouched into the supermarket with a scowl on her face.  She hadn’t intended to leave her apartment, tonight of all nights, but she was almost out of coffee, the milk had gone bad, and worst of all, she was down to the last half-roll of toilet paper.  At least she could pick up dinner on the way home and save herself the delivery fee, she thought philosophically.  Pizza, she decided.  No way she was venturing into a restaurant filled with happy couples in order to pick up a forlorn little bag of take out.  She snagged a shopping basket with a sigh and made her way through the store, picking up the necessities and a few other items besides.  Her resolve waffled as she neared the seasonal display and before she knew it, she found herself face to face with a saccharine orgy of red and pink hearts, smug stuffed animals, and cheerfully murderous cherubs.  She cursed silently, trying in vain to remind herself why she’d sworn she wasn’t going to buy Valentine’s candy.  Her already foul mood worsened as she skimmed the picked over shelves, only to find that the best candy was already gone.  Shitty candy hearts with treacly sayings on them, cinnamon red hots, and bags of invariably stale, chewy juju hearts were about all that was left.  _It figures_ , she thought bitterly. 

She headed for the checkout, but stopped short when her eyes lit on a large, heart-shaped box of gourmet chocolate in the basket of a nearby cart.  She quickly scanned the shelves again, but no—it was the only box left.  She glanced around furtively and hesitated, chewing her lip as she calculated.  _Fuck it_.  She steeled herself and reached for the box.

“Hey!  That’s mine!” Clarke startled at the outraged voice behind her.  She whipped around wide-eyed, still clutching the purloined candy in her hand, about to stutter out a shamefaced apology—and froze like the proverbial deer in the highlights.  Her mouth worked, but no words came out as she stared dumbly at the annoyed woman who strode briskly toward her.  Her charcoal pantsuit tapered gracefully over slim hips and followed the line of her long legs down to stylish heels that clacked with each step.  Her blazer flapped open over her tailored, French blue shirt, its collar still crisp at six in the evening.  She wore her thick, light brown hair up off her collar in a neat bun, and any other time Clarke might have been mesmerized by the elegant slope of her neck or the chiseled angle of her jaw.  Right at this moment, though, clear green eyes that crackled with barely subdued fire held all of her attention.  _She’s gorgeous_. 

Clarke was suddenly very conscious of her own thrown-together attire, and she felt her face pink with embarrassment.  The Ark U logo had long since faded from the hip of her beat-up gray sweats, and her ancient blue-and-white striped rugby shirt was frayed at the cuffs and might or might not have indeterminate stains on one sleeve.  She’d rolled out the door without bothering to apply makeup, and her unruly blonde hair straggled from beneath her navy beanie.  _Did I even put on deodorant this morning?_ she thought wildly. 

“What are you doing?  That’s my cart,” the woman insisted as she drew near, an irritated note creeping into her voice. 

Clarke fully intended to apologize, give back the candy, and flee the store in mortification, perhaps never to shop there again.  But when she opened her mouth, instead of “I’m sorry,” she instead heard herself snark, “I don’t see your name on it.”  Her flush deepened and she cringed to herself as the words left her mouth.   _Oh my God, Griffin, you did not just say that!  What the hell are you doing?_  

The stranger rolled her eyes.  “Real mature.  What are you, twelve?” she scoffed.  She held out an impatient hand.  “Come on, give it back, I’m in a hurry.”

Something about the tone of her voice—self-assured, perhaps even a hint of condescension—made Clarke bristle, and she sniped, “Why, got a hot date with the boyfriend?  Cutting it a little close, aren’t you, scavenging a last-minute Valentine’s gift in the grocery store?”

A quick burst of color highlighted the other woman’s bold cheekbones, and Clarke desperately tried to suppress a wicked squirm in her belly.  The woman’s nostrils flared with the effort of holding her temper in check, and she retorted tightly, “It’s not for—you know what, it’s none of your business!”  She suddenly lunged at Clarke to try to physically wrest the package from her hand, but Clarke jerked it back and danced aside.

Clarke knew she should be appalled at her juvenile behavior, and at some level she was, but she also took not-so-secret delight in flustering the perfectly put together girl and venting some of her own pent-up spite in the process.  She backpedaled just out of the stranger’s reach and seized a small, stuffed white bear holding a red heart balloon that read “be mine!” and tossed it at her.  “Here, as long as you’re being clichéd, how about giving him some cutesy crap instead?” she goaded.

The woman caught the hapless bear on the fly and pitched it right back at Clarke in a pique of fury.  Clarke ducked as the woman kept advancing on her.  “Dammit, I don’t have a girlfriend!” she snapped.  “She dumped me three months ago, and I hate Valentine’s Day, and just give me the fucking candy already!” 

Clarke halted abruptly, taken aback by the angry vulnerability in the woman’s outburst and— _Did she say girlfriend?  Girls?  She’s into girls?_   The stranger capitalized on her momentary befuddlement and snatched the box of chocolate out of her hands with an indignant huff.  She returned to her cart, flung the candy back into it emphatically, and started to peel away.  Clarke hesitated for an instant longer, then, mind made up, trotted determinedly after her.  She caught her before she reached the end of the aisle and neatly hooked one arm through the other woman’s and spun her around.  At the same time, she plucked the candy out of the cart with her free hand.   

Clarke’s quarry was so startled that her feet followed Clarke’s lead for a few steps before she reacted.  “What the hell are you doing?” she protested, making a vain attempt to disengage from Clarke’s grasp.

Clarke merely linked their arms more securely and pulled her along, pretending not to notice how good the warm press of the woman’s body felt against her side.  She said matter-of-factly, “We’re going to need wine.”

“Wine?  For what?  What do you mean _we_?”

"Well, _my_ plan for the evening was to watch Netflix and eat chocolate and drink wine and try not to think about my lousy cheating bastard of an ex.”  Clarke shot her companion a sidelong glance and shrugged.  “But _you_ have the chocolate, so...you’re coming with me.”

The other girl turned her head and gaped at Clarke in astonishment, even as she trundled along beside her.  “Come with—I am not—I have _groceries_!” she spluttered, gesturing helplessly toward her abandoned cart.

Clarke raised a critical eyebrow and sniffed.  “That organic quinoa shit?  Yeah, that’s not food.  We’re getting pizza.”

“But I don’t even know your _name_!” the stranger said desperately, in a final, weak attempt to back out.

“It’s Clarke.”

“Lexa,” she replied stupidly, giving in to Clarke’s inexorable momentum.

*********

Lexa held the steaming pizza box on her knees and wondered what the hell she was thinking.  What had possessed her to get in the car with this strange woman?  She was clearly nuts, if her behavior in the store was any indication.  _I don’t see your name on it_.  Lexa snorted to herself and watched the darkened neighborhood pass by through the car window.  Who even _said_ things like that past seventh grade?  And she was dressed like a bag lady, although Lexa hadn’t been so offput by her antics and grubby sweats that she’d failed to notice the alluring curve of her soft lips, or the ~~adorable~~ exasperating jut of her chin as she sassed her.  Ok, so she was undeniably attractive.  But she could still be a serial killer!  Why the hell had she let Clarke bowl her over and agree to go back to her apartment for an anti-Valentine’s fest of pizza, cheap wine, and sappy movies?  Not that it seemed like she’d had any real say in the matter—from their limited interaction so far, it was clear that Clarke could be a force of nature when she chose.  A dazed Lexa had found herself helping load bags of toilet paper and wine into the back of Clarke’s Honda before she’d even realized they’d breezed through the checkout.

Lexa’s ready acquiescence might have had something to do with the gleam in Clarke’s bright blue eyes—but serial killers could have blue eyes, too!  _Not like Clarke’s, though_ , a seductive little voice whispered.  But would a serial killer have let her choose the pizza toppings—pepperoni and mushroom—like Clarke had?  Maybe if she was trying to lull her into a false sense of security.  But no, crazy as the whole situation seemed—was this what being swept off your feet felt like?—she couldn’t deny Clarke’s irresistible pull and the palpable, inexplicable connection she felt with her.  And she had to admit that Clarke’s plan for the evening sounded far more appealing than another solitary meal in her own sterile apartment, even if hers had involved a somewhat better grade of wine.  A shamelessly un-nutritious dinner and some friendly companionship might be just the ticket.  “Friendly” being the operative word, because she was not at _all_ curious about what kind of curves might lie beneath Clarke’s scruffy sweats. 

Lexa snapped out of her unsettled reverie when Clarke pulled up outside her apartment building.  She hadn’t paid much attention during the short drive, but as she took in her surroundings, she realized that it looked familiar.  “This is close to the University,” she observed, finally breaking their surprisingly comfortable silence. 

Clarke nodded as she unbuckled her seatbelt and got out.  “Yeah, it’s convenient.”  At Lexa’s questioning look, she explained, “I teach at Arkadia.  Art and Art History.  You?”  She moved to the back of the car to unload her bags.

Art professors weren’t serial killers, were they?

Lexa unfolded herself hastily and followed.  “Lawyer.  I actually adjunct at Arkadia every now and then.  In the Law School,” she volunteered.  She mentally kicked herself.  _Why can’t you talk?  You’re a lawyer, of course you’d teach in the Law School!  She’s going to think you’re an idiot!  And why do you even *care* if she thinks you’re an idiot?_

Clarke didn’t seem to notice Lexa’s mental flailing, or at least she didn’t acknowledge it.  She gathered up her bags and led the way to her second-floor apartment.  She fumbled with her keys and finally nudged the door open with one hip.  “Come on in.  It’s, um, kind of a mess,” she said, taking in the clutter in the living room with a twinge of embarrassment.  “I wasn’t exactly expecting guests.”  She paused in the kitchen to put away the milk and set the bottles of wine on the counter.  Lexa followed her in and closed the door behind them.  She held up the pizza questioningly and Clarke nodded at the counter.  “Right there is fine.  I’ll be back in a sec, just make yourself at home,” she said.  She headed down the hall toward the back of the apartment.  “There’s a wine opener on the fridge and glasses in the cupboard over the dishwasher,” she called back at Lexa over her shoulder.

Lexa took her at her word.  She dropped her shoulder bag by the door and uncorked one of the bottles of red wine.  She couldn’t help her rueful smile when she opened the cupboard Clarke designated and found nothing remotely resembling a wine goblet.  The selection was mismatched and haphazard, yet somehow homey and comforting—much like Clarke herself.  Lexa pushed the stray thought aside and poured herself some wine in an Ikea rocks glass and wandered into the living room to ~~snoop~~ look around.  She idly browsed Clarke’s bookshelves out of habit—mostly art books, but with an intriguing collection of graphic novels and science fiction mixed in.  She jumped at a warm thump against her leg and looked down to see a chunky orange tabby winding through her legs.  She smiled again—it was becoming a pattern since she’d met Clarke—and stooped to scratch his ears.  She straightened up and continued her perusal of Clarke’s living space, pausing to absorb a series of arresting watercolors carefully arranged on one wall.  That was how Clarke found her when she emerged from her bedroom: wine glass balanced in one hand, her free hand cupping her opposite elbow, her hip slightly cocked and her head tilted to one side as she studied the canvas, the cat weaving affectionately at her feet.

“I see you met Fred,” Clarke commented dryly as she entered the room.  Lexa turned at her voice and suddenly felt her mouth run dry, because Clarke had changed into something more presentable, and “friendly” was now the furthest thought from Lexa’s mind.  She was still wearing comfortable clothes, but her black leggings outlined the firm muscle of her thighs far more than the sweats had.  Her blue henley shirt clung snugly over the soft curves of her breasts, and Lexa had to drag her eyes away from the tantalizing cleavage that the open top buttons revealed.

“Fred?” Lexa croaked.  “Oh, right!”  She glanced down at the cat prancing at her feet, thankful to have somewhere else to focus her thoughts and hopefully ward off the blush creeping up her neck. 

Clarke eyed her critically for a second, then announced, “Nope, this isn’t going to work.” 

Lexa looked back up at her in confusion.  Her face fell, and she felt a crushing disappointment settle like a lead weight in her belly, far more than a casual acquaintance’s rejection should warrant.  “Oh, ok.  I’ll just call a Lyft and get out of your hair.”  She moved to get her bag, swallowing the sudden lump in her throat.

Clarke’s eyes widened and her arm reached out convulsively as if to grab her.  “No!  No, sorry—that’s not what I meant!  I don’t want you to go!”  Lexa relaxed and tried to contain her hopeful smile and the uptick in her pulse as Clarke continued.  “It’s just that your clothes”—she cast a hand up and down to indicate Lexa’s neat suit—“aren’t exactly conducive to pizza and TV binging.  I feel stiff just looking at you.”  Her cheeks reddened and her eyes slid away from Lexa’s for a moment.  “Just—c’mere.”  She beckoned at Lexa and walked back toward the bedroom.

Lexa followed obediently, trying to will her gaze off of the subtle sway of Clarke’s hips.  In her bedroom, Clarke rummaged through her dresser and pulled out some old clothes.  She slapped them lightly against Lexa’s chest.  “Here, you can wear these.  The pants might be a little big—” her eyes dipped to Lexa’s hips and lingered, before she jolted out of her thoughts—“but they should fit.  I’ll, uh, just let you get changed….”  Clarke squeezed past her a little awkwardly, once again avoiding eye contact, a hint of pink on her face as she pulled the door shut on her way out. 

Once the door closed, Lexa let out a long breath.  She took in the room—furiously _not_ looking at the bed—and was struck again with how utterly _Clarke_ the space felt.  She didn’t mean to be intrusive—surely Clarke wouldn’t have left her in her room alone if she’d minded—but curiosity got the better of her and she stole a peek at the photos on Clarke’s dresser.  A few of Clarke with varying groups of friends—on a ski trip, at a formal dance—and one older, slightly yellowed one of a very small, exuberant Clarke squirming joyfully from her perch atop a man’s—presumably her father’s—shoulders.  Lexa’s eyes softened and her smile spread.  _Definitely not a serial killer._

Lexa realized she’d been in the bedroom longer than it really took to change, and she hastily shucked off her work attire and donned the long-sleeved blue t-shirt and black yoga pants that Clarke had given her.  The pants _were_ a little loose and hung low on her hips, but it felt liberating to put on something less confining.  She visibly relaxed into the soft, worn clothes and pretended that she hadn’t breathed a little deeper in order to catch Clarke’s scent on them.  She took her hair down and shook it out with a relieved sigh, the last vestiges of her professional demeanor ebbing away.  She loosened the waves with her fingers and then pulled it back into a softer, more relaxed ponytail.  She gathered up her own clothes and made her way back to the living area. 

Clarke was in the kitchen dishing up pizza when Lexa came in.  Her eyes widened and she nearly dropped a slice of pizza on the floor.  She cleared her throat and said in a slightly strained voice, “That’s, uh, much better.”

Lexa laid her folded clothes and heels beside her shoulder bag and came back to the kitchen.  “Thanks for letting me borrow some clothes.  You were right,” she admitted, “I feel a lot better.”  She rolled her shoulders to work the kinks out and stretched her arms over her head.  The borrowed shirt rode up with the motion, exposing a sliver of smooth skin.  She almost thought she’d imagined the little strangled noise Clarke emitted, until she saw Clarke blush and look away. 

Clarke shoved a plate at Lexa and said, a little too brightly, “I’m starving, let’s eat.”  She brushed by her quickly to take a seat on the couch.  A little smirk played at the corner of Lexa’s lips. 

_Huh.  Maybe it’s not just me_. 

*********

They sat on the couch eating pizza while Clarke fired up Netflix.  Lexa virtually inhaled her slice, earning her a knowing grin from Clarke.  “Told you that bag of kale wasn’t food.”

“Shut up,” Lexa grumbled, a little embarrassed by her appetite.  She weighed having another piece, not wanting to appear greedy. 

Clarke just laughed, recognizing her indecision.  “Seriously, Lexa, help yourself.  We’ve got plenty, and that’s kind of the whole point tonight—drowning our sorrows in a little decadence.”  (Although with Lexa perched on her sofa looking _that_ good in her old clothes, Clarke couldn’t quite remember why she was supposed to feel sad.)

Lexa decided the hell with it.  She hadn’t let herself let go for a long time, but she’d already made one rash decision in coming home with Clarke, what did one more matter?  Something about Clarke’s vivacious charm lit Lexa with a fizz of reckless abandon.  She hopped up to reload her plate, reasoning that she could always extend tomorrow’s workout to burn some of the extra calories. 

“Hey, just bring the whole box out here,” Clarke called after her.  “Oh, and while you’re up, would you grab the wine, too?” 

Lexa returned to the sofa, arms laden, and rolled her eyes at Clarke.  “You were just waiting for me to get up so you wouldn’t have to,” she groused in feigned annoyance.

“Worked, didn’t it?”  Clarke held up her half-drunk wine glass and batted her eyes innocently.  “Top me up?” 

Lexa almost choked on her own tongue.  She concentrated on refilling Clarke’s glass, trying to yank her mind out of the gutter and mask her hand’s slight tremble.  She replenished her own for good measure before she set the bottle on the coffee table.

“Thanks, b—uh, thanks!”  Clarke stuttered and took a quick gulp of wine to hide her face behind the glass.  _Did you almost call her ‘babe?’  What the hell, Clarke, you just met her!_  She hastily changed the subject.  “Ok, so what movie should we watch?”  She opened the Netflix menu and fidgeted nervously with the Xbox controller.

Lexa chewed her pizza thoughtfully, then said, “Nothing _too_ clichéd.”

Clarke looked at her askance.  “Lexa, that’s kind of the whole point,” she deadpanned. 

Lexa pinned her with a stare and mimicked her serious expression.  “I am not watching _The Notebook_ , Clarke,” she said flatly. 

Clarke’s belly flipped at Lexa’s little eyebrow flick, but she played it off with a nonchalant huff.  “ _Fine_.  Well, I don’t want to watch something sad where they die, so _Fried Green Tomatoes_ and _A Walk to Remember_ are out.”

“Yeah, that rules out _Titanic_ , too.  I hate to break it to you, Clarke, but—” Lexa lowered her voice to a theatrical whisper and leaned closer to Clarke—“ _the boat sinks_.”  

Clarke snickered and gave her a playful shove.  Lexa broke up laughing and flopped beside her on the sofa.  Whether from conscious intent or not, Clarke noticed that Lexa didn’t shift away from her.  “This is fun,” Clarke said sincerely, once their laughter subsided.  “I’m glad you came over.”

Lexa tossed her head dramatically.  “I had no choice.  I was kidnapped.”

Clarke conceded the point.  “You could have said no and blown me off as some nutcase.  I’m glad you didn’t.”  She continued quickly, deflecting some of the sentiment behind her words.  “I mean, if you hadn’t let me kidnap you, I probably would’ve just spent the evening getting drunk and feeling sorry for myself.  What about you?  I never asked—did I tear you away from exciting plans?” she asked, half seriously and half in jest.

“No, I probably would have done something similar,” Lexa admitted.  “Too much wine.  The last time I did that, I drunk-dialed Costia.”  Her face twisted in a mix of regret and disgust.

Clarke really didn’t mean to pry, but she couldn’t fathom how someone could throw over the charming, witty, beautiful woman next to her.  Curiosity got the better of her.  “What did she do?”

Lexa took in the openness on Clarke’s face: the genuine interest shaded with empathy, her shy smile, eyes so blue Lexa could gladly drown in their depths.  A tentative sensation fluttered in her chest, a tiny kernel of hope that she hadn’t felt in a long time.  She hesitated, then said simply, “You know what, let’s not talk about them.  It’s not a secret,” she assured, “I’ll tell you sometime”—Clarke thrilled at the prospect of there being a _sometime_ —“but….”  Her voice trailed off and she looked at Clarke with a meaningful expression.  “We deserve better.”

Clarke felt the weight of her words and the banked heat in Lexa’s eyes.  Her voice turned husky.  “I’ll drink to that.”  Her eyes held Lexa’s gaze for a beat before flitting away, and warmth rose in her cheeks as they clinked glasses and drank.

Clarke set her glass down and resumed paging through the Netflix options, trying to get her jangling nerves under control.  “Ok, so we’ve got… _Sleepless in Seattle_?”

Lexa grimaced.  “Annoying kids.” 

“ _Ghost_?”

“He dies.”

“ _City of Angels_?”

“She dies.”

“Um… _10 Things I Hate About You_?”

“He’s dead in real life.”

“Yeah….”  Clarke sighed regretfully and kept scrolling.  “ _Imagine Me and You_?”

Lexa cocked an eyebrow at Clarke and eyed her with interest, but said only, “I’ve…probably seen that one too many times.” 

Clarke snorted in bemusement.  She flipped past a few more films.  “Oh, how about this one?”

“ _Some Kind of Wonderful_?  Never heard of it.”

“What?”  Clarke shifted to look directly at Lexa.  “Really?  John Hughes?”  Her jaw dropped at Lexa’s clueless shrug.  “ _Ferris Bueller_?  _Pretty in Pink_?  _The Breakfast Club_?” 

“Ok, _that_ one I’ve seen,” Lexa said defensively.

Clarke eyed her shrewdly.  “Uh huh.  Only because of _Pitch Perfect_ , am I right?”

Lexa sipped her wine and averted her eyes.  “Maybe,” she muttered. 

Clarke’s laughter bubbled over.  “Oh my God, who even _are_ you?  These are 80s classics!” she teased.

“I’m a child of the 90s, Clarke,” Lexa huffed. 

“So am I, Lexa, that’s no excuse.  Clearly I’m going to have to educate you,” Clarke announced determinedly, cueing up the film.

Lexa skimmed the short on-screen synopsis and frowned in confusion.  “I don’t get it—it’s just another cheesy 80s rom com.  What’s so cool about it?”

Clarke just looked at her as if the answer was obvious.  “Watts,” she said, and hit play.

  *********

Clarke hit the pause button as the credits rolled.  “Ok, so it’s corny and clichéd.  But no more so than _The Notebook_.”

Lexa made a face.  “Thank god.  No, it was cute.”  She cut her eyes at Clarke.  “You were right about Watts.”

Clarke smirked and gave Lexa a sly wink that set her insides aquiver.  “Told you.”  She clapped her hands together and said eagerly, “All right, I know what we’re gonna watch next.” 

Lexa demurred.  “I don’t know, it’s getting late, I should probably head home—”

“Aw, come on, Lexa, stay—it’s only 9:30,” Clarke pleaded.  The prospect of Lexa leaving made her stomach knot and an aching pang throb in her chest. “We’ve still got plenty of wine, you said yourself you didn’t have other plans,” she wheedled.  She turned her best pout—part affected, part all-too-real—on Lexa for effect.

Lexa knew she would cave as soon as Clarke’s lower lip quivered.  She hadn’t really wanted to leave, anyway.  There was nothing waiting for her at home, and she was having a good time.  The wine had loosened her up, and she was enjoying her easy banter with Clarke.  Making her exit had seemed like the polite thing to do, but if Clarke didn’t want her to leave, who was Lexa to argue?  “I guess I can stick around for another movie,” she relented.

Clarke beamed.  Her pleased little cheer chased away any lingering reservations Lexa might have had.  “This calls for popcorn!”  She bounced to her feet and into the kitchen. 

Lexa curled into the sofa and let warm contentment wash over her.  Was it strange to feel this kind of connection with a random woman she’d stumbled across in the grocery store?  She barely knew anything about Clarke, and yet she’d felt happier, more relaxed, more like _herself_ in her presence than she’d felt in ages.  Between Clarke’s carefree grin and her infectious, irreverent wit, Lexa had had a goofy smile plastered on her own face for the last few hours, and she realized she wasn’t the least bit self-conscious about it.  She might have only known Clarke for a few short hours, but it felt like so much longer.  She _wanted_ it to be longer.  No, she definitely didn’t want to go home. 

And maybe she was misreading the signs, but it seemed like Clarke felt the same way.  Perhaps it was just Clarke’s natural demeanor, but her lighthearted teasing had taken on a flirtatious edge, and Lexa was pretty sure she’d been sneaking glances at her while they watched the movie (perhaps because she’d been sneaking her own glances at Clarke).  She was _definitely_ sure that she’d caught Clarke checking out her ass when she got up to use the restroom.  She grinned at the memory of Clarke’s eyes shooting away and the red cheeks she failed to conceal behind her wine glass.  So.  Lexa didn’t think the attraction was one-sided, but that didn’t mean she knew what to do about it.  Should she make a move?  She’d only just met Clarke, but the one thing she knew with bone-deep certainty was that she didn’t want to screw this up—whatever _this_ might be.

She thumped her head lightly against the sofa cushion and exhaled heavily.  This clearly required more wine.  She picked up the bottle and shook it, but it was empty.  She got up and went to the kitchen to get a fresh one.  Clarke was at the stove with her back turned, singing to herself and shaking her hips in a little dance as she cranked the Whirly-Pop.  She didn’t hear Lexa come in over the noise of the popping corn.  Lexa’s mouth formed an ‘O’ and she stopped in her tracks to appreciate Clarke’s full, squeezably round ass moving in time to an imaginary beat.  She knew it was rude to stare—ogle, really—but with Clarke’s thighs flexing like that, it was a struggle to tamp down her increasingly dirty fantasies.  She forced her gaze away and stepped to the counter just as Clarke turned around, so close she was almost in Lexa’s arms.

“Jesus, Lexa!  You startled me.”  Clarke gasped in surprise, but she didn’t back away.

Neither did Lexa.  “Sorry, I didn’t mean to sneak up on you,” she murmured.  The air between them thickened.  Lexa’s hands tingled with the urge to pull Clarke closer still, to feel her softness pressed tight against her.  Her eyes dipped to Clarke’s wine-stained lips and she unconsciously moistened her own.  Her eyes drifted shut and she began to lean in, heart in her throat….

The odor of scorching popcorn sliced through the tension and broke the moment.  “Oh shit!”  Clarke blurted.  She jerked away to shut off the stove and yank the Whirly Pop off the burner.  Lexa cleared her throat and grabbed the bottle of wine.  “I, uh, just came in to get this,” she said awkwardly.  She fled back to the living room, face aflame.

Clarke joined her a few minutes later with a big bowl of popcorn and resumed her seat on the couch.  They both carefully avoided mention of the almost-kiss, though it was all either of them could think about.  Clarke picked up the controller and selected another movie.  “Ok, time to continue your education,” she said in a too-bright voice.  “Next up, _Say Anything_.” 

“Yeah?  What’s its claim to fame?” Lexa resorted to sarcasm to bluff past her nerves.

“Shh.  Just watch, you’ll see.” 

Clarke hit play and they settled in to watch.  As much as she enjoyed the movie, Clarke’s thoughts nonetheless wandered.  She couldn’t get her mind off Lexa’s soft lips, how they would have felt upon her own, whether Lexa’s velvety skin would tremble at her touch, how her breath might stutter as Clarke pressed the kiss deeper….

Clarke shifted on the sofa, trying to ease the slow throb between her legs.  She couldn’t move too much because the popcorn bowl was balanced between her lap and Lexa’s.  She cursed herself for being too cute for her own good, because she could easily have put the popcorn in two separate bowls, but no.  No, she’d thought it would be fun to share, and just _maybe_ their hands would graze as they split the bowl.  _You watch too many goddamn movies, Griffin_.  She hadn’t counted on the exquisite agony of Lexa’s taut thigh wedged against her own, warmth fairly radiating off her body, and her left shoulder brushing against Lexa’s right _every time_ she scooped a handful of popcorn.  She watched the screen blindly, utterly unable to concentrate through the fog of _Lexa_.

_“…I gave her my heart and she gave me a pen.”_

Clarke might have missed the first little sniff had she not been so attuned to Lexa.  She glanced at Lexa out of the corner of her eye.  She was blinking rapidly, her glistening eyes stoically focused on TV.  Clarke held her tongue, guessing that Lexa wouldn’t want to be seen in a moment of weakness.  But as Lloyd serenaded Diane on-screen in the iconic boombox scene, Clarke heard a second snuffle.  She looked sideways to see a solitary tear sliding down Lexa’s cheek, and her hand rose of its own volition to catch it.  Lexa gasped and turned into her gentle touch.  Her eyes were wide and luminous with tears in the TV’s silvery glow, her lips so plump and just barely parted in surprise.  “ _Lexa_ ,” Clarke breathed.  Lexa’s own breath hitched again, just as Clarke had imagined.  Her eyes fell to Clarke’s mouth and Clarke stopped thinking and kissed her.  

It started out gentle, the barest brush of pressure.  It caught Lexa off guard, and when she didn’t react at first, Clarke nearly panicked and pulled away, afraid she’d gone too far.  But then Lexa’s lips formed her name and she sighed shakily into Clarke’s mouth.  Lexa lifted a tentative hand to cup Clarke’s jaw and they spiraled into each other as they each moved to deepen the kiss.  They angled toward each other on the sofa, mouths opening to swipe deeper.  Clarke’s hand slipped to Lexa’s nape, fingers sinking into the fine hairs there and tugging them free from her ponytail.  Lexa’s arms, meanwhile, crept around Clarke’s body, drawing her in, her hands stroking gently up and down the length of her back.  

Clarke raised up on one knee, and moved to straddle Lexa’s lap.  She’d forgotten all about the popcorn bowl in their laps; it toppled to the ground and popcorn cascaded everywhere.  The spill snapped their single-minded focus and they broke the kiss.  Lexa’s lungs ached, but all she could think was _Clarke_ and how right she felt in her arms.  She rested her forehead against Clarke’s and gathered her composure.  She burned to keep kissing her, to pull Clarke fully onto her lap, to peel away their clothes until there was nothing between them but a whisper, and then to sink into her until neither of them could remember their own names.  But it felt like they were hurtling forward at light speed and as much as she wanted to give herself over to it, she held back.  She leaned back in, just enough to bump her nose against Clarke’s, a mere sliver of breath between their lips.  “Are you drunk?” she asked quietly, no judgment or censure implied. 

“No,” Clarke replied huskily.  She licked her lips and looked at Lexa anxiously.  “Are you?”

“Not really.  What are we doing, Clarke?”  Lexa said, her eyes flickering over Clarke’s face questioningly, too close to really focus on her features.  “We hardly know each other.”

“I know.”  Clarke took one of Lexa’s hands and brought it to her chest, holding her palm still against her body so that Lexa could feel her heartbeat thundering beneath the flesh.  “But you feel it, right?  What I’m feeling?” she asked in a hushed voice.  She drew back enough so that she could see Lexa’s face clearly. 

Lexa swallowed and her eyes fluttered shut for an instant.  “Yes,” she whispered, eyes opening again to reveal green nearly eaten away by darkness.  “I want this.  I want _you_ , so much it aches,” she said, succumbing to the lure of Clarke’s kiss-swollen lips again, relishing the wet slide of Clarke’s tongue as she licked into her mouth and the greedy whimper the kiss elicited.  She pulled away with a groan.  “But I don’t want to just rush into bed and maybe ruin whatever this is.”

“I know.”  Clarke wrapped her arms around Lexa and nuzzled her face into the crook of her neck.  She dropped a feather-light kiss upon the salty sweetness there and murmured into Lexa’s neck.  “I’m afraid it’ll seem like too much, that I’ll freak out and push you away…or that you’ll panic and disappear on me.”    

“Do you want me to go?”  Lexa asked.  She closed her eyes and rubbed her cheek against the silky smoothness of Clarke’s hair, contentedly soaking in Clarke’s warm fragrance. 

“No.  Stay.  Please,” Clarke said with certitude.  “But let’s…go slow.”  She sat back to gauge Lexa’s expression, her arms still loosely looped over her shoulders.  “I want to _know_ you, Lexa Woods.”

Lexa’s eyes shone in the dim light with an intensity that made Clarke’s belly swoop.  “Can I still kiss you?” she asked, her hopeful, cheeky grin broadening.

“God, yes,” Clarke blurted.  Lexa’s grin shaded into a smirk at her eagerness, and Clarke blushed.  She scrambled to her feet, wincing briefly at the popcorn under her feet, and held out a hand to pull Lexa up.  “Come to bed with me?”  The dark desire that flashed in Lexa’s eyes made her shiver, and she thought wildly that taking things slow was simultaneously the best and worst idea she’d had in ages. 

Their fingers twined together and arms crept around waists as Clarke led Lexa to her bedroom, a journey punctuated by giddy kisses and giggles.  Getting ready for bed was a drawn-out affair, made longer by Lexa’s mouth painting painstaking kisses down Clarke’s throat, Clarke’s hands winding into Lexa’s messy tresses to hold her still as her tongue explored the fervent heat of Lexa’s mouth, and tender touches and wandering hands.  And despite their hesitation, they didn’t take things quite _that_ slowly, because when Lexa slid into bed clad only in Clarke’s t-shirt, Clarke couldn’t resist tangling her own bare legs between the long, smooth muscles of Lexa’s thighs and kissing her breathless.  Lexa curled up behind Clarke, the big spoon to her small one.  Clarke’s own breath went ragged when Lexa’s hand eased under the hem of her shirt and stole up to cup her bare breast.  Clarke groaned as Lexa tweaked her nipple with a wicked thumb. Lexa smirked into her neck, but stopped her teasing there. 

Lexa’s sheltering warmth cocooned around Clarke and she began to drift into sleep.  She tried to get words out, but all she could manage through her yawn was “Lexa…Valentine…” 

Lexa ghosted a kiss at the base of her neck and whispered, “Shh.  Sleep, Clarke.  I’m not going anywhere.  You still have my candy, remember?”


End file.
